


Aiming Issues

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Family, Crack, Desperation, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I mean this is potty training 101 Peter is just 12 years too late, Infantilism, Iron Dad, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Omorashi, Peter Cannot Aim, Post-Avengers (2012), Potty Humour, Some Humor, Spidey son, Team as Family, That is It, This Is STUPID, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, like a little bit I guess, look this is the weirdest thing I have ever written I am aware, non sexual, peeing, somewhere along the way a father/son relationship developed and it has reached its peak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “One of you,” Natasha spat grumpily as she stalked her way to the bustling early morning chatter of the common room, “doesn’t know how to aim. If I end up sitting in a puddle of grown men’s piss again, you’re all sleeping with your eyes open. Capische?”“I need to speak to you about…” she eyed Peter again, insistently this time, but Stark didn’t quite catch her gaze. The last resort, she grabbed at Stark’s penchant for stupid nicknames… “Krypto the wonder-dog.”It becomes apparent that the Tower's resident teenager has some... aiming issues. It falls to Tony to solve them.Unfortunately.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	Aiming Issues

**Author's Note:**

> this is the stupidest thing I've ever written. please read the tags. please do not ask me why this exists or why I wrote it. it is vaguely inspired by a head canon that Peter cannot aim, obviously. otherwise I don't know. I don't. please don't take this seriously I do write some vaguely decent fics sometimes. listen. 
> 
> omorashi, peeing, probably a bit babied, if you like that read on if you don't don't read it blah blah blah etcetera etcetera 
> 
> listen I am filled with shame okay I am sorry xD

As the dim sunlight of early morning beat down on her eyelids slowly she was pulled from a cocoon of slumber. Stood on unsteady feet with her eyes still closed in sleep she began her journey — slow and unsure but a journey all the same. The light of the hallway was brighter, fresher and harsher against her eyes and she crinkled them defiantly in a desperate attempt to cling onto the sensation of drowsiness that was now on a rapid descent out of her body like… like water glugging down the plughole. An urgent punch in her nether regions was a harsh reminder of what had prematurely pulled her from her precious rest and with it came a slight scratchy whimper. Pressing her toes into the soft wooden carpet for a moment she regained herself and came to a sluggish stop in the bathroom. The distant punching within her midriff had in a handful of seconds amplified and so another uncomfortable groan tore itself from between her plump pink lips.  
On autopilot, she drew her legs up and down with urgency in between sliding herself out of her silken pyjama bottoms and sending her lacy knickers to her ankles. It was cold, she managed to register in between the fogginess of her brain, a short shiver dwindling from the top to the bottom of her body. At the same time, a little pearl of pee rolled forward with the threat of cascading out and with that she collapsed down onto the toilet.  
In the split second before her bum made contact with the seat, she braced herself for it to be cold as it often was — except what she wasn’t bargaining on was not two stroking fingers of coldness but for two cold pools of wetness to collect beneath her juuuuuust as her light morning spray hit the porcelain.  
“…God damn it, Stark.” Somehow the feeling of cold wetness running teasingly against the backs of her thighs was enough to pull Natasha from her all-consuming tiredness with a swift wet (and frighteningly cold) whack across the face - no, now she wanted blood. 

“One of you,” Natasha spat grumpily as she stalked her way to the bustling early morning chatter of the common room, “doesn’t know how to aim. If I end up sitting in a puddle of grown men’s piss again, you’re all sleeping with your eyes open. Capische?”

It was the fourth time this week that Natasha had been given such an unpleasant welcome to the morning - and that was without counting the weeks prior. This was the final crack in the dam, so to speak.

“Don’t look at me,” Clint scoffed as he buttered a slice of toast and stuffed it into his mouth. Bruce was cowed and shook his head in timid agreement, turning his head back to the television. “I don’t use that bathroom,” he murmured.  
Neither did Steve, who had refused to answer but (after some Hard and Stern Glares courtesy of Nat) had shrugged and said, with the tips of his ears reddening, that it was too far away for him to get to in time anyway.  
Thor was off-world and thus out of the question. 

Which left one culprit. 

“Thanks for this morning, Stark.” Natasha murmured, her back to the billionaire as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. Though her voice was soft the bitterness within it was evident. She looked toward him out of the corner of one eye. He was leaning against the back of a chair with a coffee mug in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. And he dared to look confused, to pull a meek ‘oh, it wasn’t my fault!’ sort of face right there in front of her!

“…for what, exactly?” Tony blinked and tried his hardest to look casual and as if he totally understood what Natasha was going on about as he sipped from his morning brew. 

“You know. Exactly. What.” Natasha growled through tightly grit teeth. It was, on reflection, perhaps a bit of an overreaction on her part but no one - Avenger or not - was going to steal sleep from her - and for such petty reasons too. “You are a grown man. I expect that shit from four-year-olds.”

Tony blinked again, his eyes wide in confusion. It was too early for this. He had been hoofing down his coffee with the expectation of waking up from what was obviously a very bizarre and alcohol-fuelled dream—right? Because this… this wasn’t-couldn’t be-real?—but as he neared the end of his mug the sinking sensation in his stomach told him that this was very much a real situation; a real situation that was getting no clearer. “Nat. I’m stumped. What?”

“You know what.” She growled again through a mouthful of gritted teeth and buttered toast. “What I sat in this morning. What I’ve been sitting in every morning for the past month and a half.”

Tony shrugged in that infuriating sort of way that only he could manage, his eyes still as wide as ever. The sight of him made every hair on the back of Natasha’s neck prickle with bitter upset and it took all of her strength not to throw something at him. Not necessarily what was safest (an orange, ripe in the fruit bowl) either. Words fizzed on her tongue like an all-too-bitter pill, forming angrily. But just before she could spit them out… 

“Thanks for breakfast, Mr Stark.” Whispered the liltingly soft voice of one Peter Parker as he rose from the kitchen table with an empty plate in his hand. “The pancakes were extra yummy today. Next time though…” his voice melted somewhat and the tone became questioning, “can you ask Miss Potts if she’ll put some chocolate chips on the grocery list?”

“Strawberries and cream too healthy for you huh, bud?” Stark’s attention drifted from Natasha in an instant as he took the plate and put it into the sink for washing up but his words were so heavy and wet with sarcasm that Nat lost her train of thought and instead tuned into the pair; just in time to hear Stark instruct Peter to visit the bathroom because his squirming was ‘giving everything away’. The pill on her tongue dissolved entirely and dropped a cold bolt of realisation into her stomach instead. Of course. She had been so wrapped up in anger for Stark that not only had she not caught sight of the teenager in the kitchen, but she had entirely forgotten… as the kid bounced off his early morning energy a voice came to her head, _‘I’m putting the spiders together for now, that okay?’_  
She sighed in defeat. “Stark. I need to talk to you.”

“…about?”

The tap was running now; a thick gush beating against the metal sink that interrupted their not-so-seamless conversation. She supposed it was a pointed move on Stark’s part because although Peter hadn’t moved any, his squirming had increased tenfold. The assassin eyed Peter uneasily, waiting to see him disappear out of the room and feeling a frustrated pang as he squirmed beside her and finished his morning juice. “…oh, just things.”

“Nat. It’s 11 am. I had a 7 am wake up call. Stop speaking in riddles.” 

“I need to speak to you about…” she eyed Peter again, insistently this time, but Stark didn’t quite catch her gaze. The last resort, she grabbed at Stark’s penchant for stupid nicknames… “Krypto the wonder-dog.” 

There was a beat.

The beat hung in the air. 

Tony showed no signs of cascading realisation. Desperate, she twitched her head toward Peter. 

(Stark was beginning to wonder if she was having some sort of seizure and whether standing here giving her the confused eyes, slinging back coffee, and washing dishes, was the best thing to be doing.)

“I- I don’t have time to decipher any of this right now…”  
Natasha could hear the tired, utterly-confused desperation carrying itself over in his voice but still, she held it in until—finally—she saw Peter lose the fight and leg it to the bathroom. “It’s Peter,” she said, “I need to talk to you about Peter.”

“What about him?” If Stark was concerned he didn’t show it, scrubbing at the plate in the sink with an energy Natasha had never seen in him before. 

Natasha too rubbed her temples as she tried to think of the best way to go about it. As quick as the words formed they melted again or simply didn’t feel quite right on her tongue. Suddenly she understood Stark’s interest in the washing up; it was as good a distraction as any this early in the morning. “For the past month,” she said, the bullet well and truly wedged between her teeth because really she didn’t see any other way this would have worked out, “I have been using the bathroom and sitting in somebody’s piss. If Thor is off-world, Steve Clint and Bruce deny it and you’re clueless…”

A shrug. The realisation formed silently in front of them and slowly washed over Tony; his face changing. He pressed pause on washing up and the corners of his mouth quirked up as he looked toward Natasha. “You’re saying my kid has _aiming issues_?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

The realisation faded but Stark’s amused expression remained. He turned toward the washing once more with a tuneless little hum blown out between his teeth. The kiddo was fifteen, surely he knew to aim into a toilet and not around it? Even if he didn’t - and Stark had never been close enough to notice that particular detail - what exactly did Natasha expect him to do about it?!

“If he does, you’re gonna have to teach him.”

…oh. That.

Well, what Natasha didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her… right? It was hardly as if Tony supervised all of Peter’s bathroom visits - he was fifteen for crying out loud, not three - and he was sure that if he ever did broach the subject with Peter then that was goodbye to the ‘internship’. Pete was a sensitive kid as it was; sensitive in the ‘it’s taken so long for us to build this bond up’ sort of way— and Natasha had another thing coming if she even dared to suggest that he risk losing Peter’s trust and love in him over something so small. And so as the days drew by Natasha’s urge to pelt the back of Stark’s stupid little head with the stupid orange in the stupid bowl to wipe that stupidly insufferable smirk off of his face, grew that bit more intense.

Then, because the universe worked in such mysterious ways — and hated Tony Stark just that tiny, little bit — it all came to a head.  
~ “Mr Sta-a-rk…” Peter stammered, voice a breathy staccato as he jammed his legs together with a whimper. “I- I can’t hold on for much longer! It… it feels like it’s gonna come out!”

They had been stuck in traffic for the past thirty minutes and it didn’t look as though there was to be any let-up just yet. Peter had been sat in the back of the Audi needing to pee for at least the last hour and it was obvious now that he was reaching his limit. “Kiddo, we’re bumper to bumper - I can’t do anything yet. You’re doing so, so well!” Stark’s voice came out with a beautiful mixture of sympathy and praise. 

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna pee. Sir, please, I- I _can’t_ , not here…” the tears welled in Peter’s eyes and began to trickle down his cheeks without him giving permission - but he was too exhausted and too full-to-bursting to bother caring. His hands had been plastered between his legs to keep the dam sealed but slowly his resolve was breaking — even the aching hotness in his thighs was dulling in favour of creeping closer and closer to his tip. 

Stark ran a hand through his hair, desperate to try and keep his rising anxiety at seeing Peter in such a state out of his voice. “Kid— kid, I don’t give a shit about the car, okay?” He soothed. Entirely true, even if Peter chose to think otherwise. Getting the car cleaned would cost pennies to him and would take up little more than an hour of the afternoon. Still, it wasn’t the most attractive of solutions and as Peter urgently shook his head he understood entirely, looking around.  
“…Well…” Tony’s eye caught sight of the line of cars stretched out in the rearview mirror and he bit his lip already in anticipation of the answer to this one, “If I keep watch, you can go hose down the back tire…?”

Peter stared at the cars behind and in front of them in horror, shaking all over. “Mr Stark, no!” He squeaked in mortification, although it was obvious from how he was beginning to pant and suck in his tummy that his bladder thought this was a very good solution indeed. “S- someone might see me!”

Tony nodded to himself—knew deep down that would be a no, too—and bit back a frustrated sigh, looking around. ‘That’s all I got, kid, good luck’ was already on the tip of his tongue—when his eyes caught sight of a discarded bottle of Mountain Dew on the floor. Empty, and with surely enough room for Peter to fill it up… what kid didn’t have to use a bottle at least once in an emergency…? Surely — surely — Peter wouldn’t say no to this one? “Here!” He burst, thrusting out the green bottle.  
“Here, fill this up for me, yeah?” He tossed the bottle at the kid (who caught it impressively quickly. The plastic cap, considerably less so. It _thwuck_ -ed against his nose; he drew his legs in as it fell to the space between his legs.)

Peter looked unsurely at the bottle and the space around him. The bottle had a really small opening, and the seats were leather and would hold every puddle he made… so he had to make every effort to aim properly. That was all, he coached himself as if it was so simple. Unzipping, he squeezed the bottle between his legs and (trembling) fished himself out of his boxers. He was already dripping, and it took only a matter of seconds for his stream to shoot free. Not quite hitting the bottle as he had hoped, but splattering down the side and into a small puddle on the seat. Letting out a strangled gasp— no not here! — Peter shifted in place and tried to aim properly again, breath juddering. A few wayward gushes and dribbles alternated between splattering into the bottom of the bottle and streaming against the leather seating. By the time his stream had dwindled off to spits, the bottle was decently full… but the wetness on the seat was undeniable - especially when it tilted and trickled under his clothed bum, dampening it. Looking at the glistening puddles pooling around him he whimpered, shame tugging in the pit of his stomach. “Mr Stark,” he fought to say through the tightness in his throat, capping the bottle and shakily passing it back. Maybe Mr Stark wouldn’t look back. _Don’t look back,_ he willed pleadingly. _Don’t, oh please don’t!_

Tony looked back, intending on taking the bottle and emptying it by the roadside. The sight before him made him go still and cold - not in anger - but realisation. 

_Shit._

Natasha was right.  
~ 

“Feet apart, alright? Like this. Not too close to the toilet. A little bit further back.” Tony instructed, pushing Peter back a little bit. Teaching Peter Parker to aim was something Tony never envisioned himself doing, but there was no stopping now, not now they were in this damn position. It had taken the kid at least twenty minutes to even consider standing near the toilet with Tony nearby.  
( _'You do know I have one of those too, right, kiddo, or did they not teach you that in health class?'_ Tony had quipped, grinning. When that didn't work he had pleaded and said that Peter was only dragging this out for the pair of them. The pants stayed up. The tactic was changed. _'I'm your **father** , or at least the closest thing you have, to, uh, paraphrase Vader'_. Still nothing. Tony was growing really very desperate. _'...Do it or Natasha will make us both sleep with one eye open.'_  
The pants came down remarkably quickly after that.  
…Although, now that he had had a chance to sit down and talk to Peter about it, it made a lot more sense. He had been orphaned at such a young age and the loss of Uncle Ben, right during his potty training years, meant that teaching him to potty train fell at May’s feet, who had taught him to sit out of ease. Somewhere along the way, he had gotten embarrassed by sitting and decided to stand. Stark suspected May had adopted the ‘head in sand’ approach that he himself had, left the issue well alone, shoved him off to the Internship… and here they were. 

“Like this?” 

“Like that.” Tony nodded, holding his hands in the same position. (Over his jeans. He was fully clothed. This story is weird enough.) 

“Okay.” Peter nodded shyly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You can go now!” 

Nodding, Tony patted his shoulder and left him alone to drain the tank.  
~ 

As the dim sunlight of early morning beat down on her eyelids slowly she was pulled from a cocoon of slumber. She stood, unsteady feet, eyes closed - stumbling the familiar route to the bathroom. Door open, light pressing against her closed eyes, and it was cold - she braced herself for cold. Settling onto the toilet she sat in cold, wetness seeping along the backs of her thighs. 

“Damn it, Stark.” she grunted.  
~ 

“If I may, sir. I’m not sure your teaching has been quite as effective as you hoped. Ms Romanov reported sitting in an unwelcome puddle this morning.” JARVIS recounted. 

“He’s _fifteen_!” Tony grumbled, pausing from where he was making adjustments to Peter’s newest Spider-suit. “What else am I meant to do, sit there with him, coach him through it?” 

“I have some footage of the boy’s toileting habits, sir,” JARVIS said. “For the sake of his privacy, I will not show you them. I highly suspect his increased need to burn off energy is partly the culprit. Put simply, he can’t keep still long enough to even begin to think of aiming correctly.” There was a tiny chuckle in the A.I.s voice. “Sometimes his inability to get his suit off in time can lead to mis-aiming, too. Finally, the early morning wake-up calls. He wakes at least once in the early hours to use the facilities and does so with his eyes closed. Just like you, sir.” Another chuckle.  
(Tony flushed, indignant. “I do not!”)  
“I believe Miss Potts would disagree with that one, sir. Moving back to the topic at hand, I see it is easily solved. A waste filter in the child’s suit, much like your own, would solve those desperate mis-aimings. Gently encouraging him to not drink too much before bedtime would stop the early hour wakings. And, otherwise…”  
~ 

Tony pinned a grid to the tile wall. It was split into two; TONY in one half, PETER in the other. Attached to the grid by a flimsy piece of tape and string was a pen. In the toilet bowl was a ping pong ball coloured a luminous aqua blue - so bright you could see it with your eyes closed. Peter was watching Tony in confusion. 

“We are going to practice,” Tony said to the confused look. “Me too. Pep told me I had to. We’re in this together.” He chuckled. A little-white-lie-that-was-only-sort-of-a-lie never hurt anybody, right? “Whenever you go for a pee, I want you to aim right for the ping pong ball.” He indicated it inside the toilet, although it was so bright Peter didn’t need it to be pointed out. “If you aim at the ball for a whole pee, you get a point. If you don’t, you don’t. No cheating, I will get Jarvis to check. Same rules for me. At the end of the month, we’ll see who has the most points. If you have the most points I’ll get you whatever kinda treat you want. Videogame, Lego, whatever you pick. But if I have the most points, you have to do whatever chores I ask of you for an entire weekend. Deal?” 

Peter hesitated. “Deal.” He said slowly - but only because he sort of had to pee just from talking about it… and now that he thought about it, really really wanted the Hogwarts Express Lego set. He shifted on his feet. “Um, you can go now.” He offered sheepishly. 

Tony gone, Peter faced the toilet and (very carefully) did the deed— grinning as he marked a ‘1’ beside his name afterwards. 

Easy peasy. 


End file.
